Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Rebel Heart promo

My newest release, the prequel to the REBEL KNIGHT serial story, will be available next week. It's called "Rebel Heart" and is the backstory for what unfolds in the first installment of the serialized story with Branscombe Richmond. The serial itself is being sponsored by the American Motorcycle Cmpany, and if you're at all curious about the motorcycles that are going to be used in the stories, you really should check out their website. (http://www.amc1902.com/) If you click on Branscombe's Corner, you'll find the pictures and stats about the bikes. First one we're using is the Apache Bagger, which is a really cool-looking motorcycle, even to someone like me who doesn't know anything about motorcycles!!
Here's an excerpt from REBEL HEART. If you like it, pop over to my website or the Amber Quill Press website on Sunday to order the eBook! (http://www.amberquill.com/)

...Francesca Daniels glared at the offending flat tire with enough ire to make it implode. This would be the day the damn car broke down. Her ever-reliable VW had at long last failed to bring her safely home, and in the worst possible weather. It was raining like the sky itself was dissolving, heavy drops pelting her until she was wet through to her skin. The spare tire was back at her house, having been removed specifically to give her more trunk space for supplies. An autumn storm was the last thing she’d been expecting that afternoon when she’d headed into the town of Carter Springs, Montana, about thirty miles from her remote ranch home.

She turned her baleful glower to the sky, searching with near desperation for a break in the churning gray thunderheads above her. No such luck. She’d have to lock up the car and walk. With at least five miles between her present location and home, she was not looking forward to the impromptu hike. Dusk was encroaching on what little light remained in the day, and the road was heavily wooded on either side. Her flashlight would be dead long before she reached the outer boundaries of her property. Leaving her car behind with several hundred dollars worth of provisions and art supplies wasn’t sitting well with her, either. Not that anyone would notice it. The road wasn’t what anyone would call well-traveled since the only thing at the end of it was the Daniels Ranch.

She was double-checking the Jetta when she heard the distant rumble of an engine. Panic leapt into her throat, the reaction involuntary. Squinting, she turned toward the noise and tried to stay calm. In less than a minute the rumble of sound became more distinct, and by the time a gleaming Indian motorcycle had made the turn and come into view, she was ready to bolt for cover.

There was nothing on the road, only her house, and her father’s a little farther down, so it made sense the rider was either lost or looking for her. Neither possibility pleased her overmuch. It didn’t occur to her that he might be looking for her dad; Tom Daniels wasn’t known for his social activity. Her heartbeat began to thump in her ears, deafening her for several seconds as she watched the polished and chromed bike pull off the road and come to a halt a few yards from her car. The rider balanced the bike on the kickstand and rose, the motion seamless and well-practiced. As he walked toward her, Frankie was struck by the sheer size and presence of the man. He was easily six foot three, and had long legs encased in form-fitting black denim that accentuated both the muscular shape and the length of them. He wore a black leather jacket over broad shoulders, and was removing his gloves to reveal strong, elegant hands. He stuffed the gloves in his pockets and reached up to take off his helmet.

Frankie’s breath left her lungs in a sudden, powerful expulsion, and she forgot to draw in fresh air for several moments of time. In those suspended instants, she was lost in awareness of the man who walked ever closer to her. Within the emerging twilight, he didn’t seem quite real, yet he was more real than any man she’d ever seen in her twenty-nine years of living. Ebony eyes sparkled with natural warmth, and the perfect planes of his face were framed by long, blue-black hair. His skin tone told of Native American heritage, and the smile that flashed over his striking features revealed even white teeth.

“Can I help?”

His voice was smooth, tone rich and silky, modulation exquisite. She shivered, and remembered to breathe when tiny sparks danced before her eyes, haloing him as though he were some sort of dark angel.

“I’ve got a flat, and my spare is back at the house,” she replied when his head tilted to one side, his expression quizzical.

“Why don’t I give you a lift then?”

Every nerve in her body screamed yes, and it scared the hell out of her. The part of her brain that wasn’t attuned to every sinuous line of his body was still capable of reason, even if it was to a limited degree. She chewed her bottom lip for a few moments and considered her options, pretending for a second or two that she had any real options.

“I’m Nick Red Cloud,” he said, raking a hand through his dripping hair, and shaking the water away before reaching toward her.

She took his hand and tried not to choke on the leap of response that the simple touch elicited from the inner core of her heart. She’d never met anyone who rattled her deeply, and this man was already making her customary reserve a thing of laughable scorn. His grip was warm and strong, and he held her icy fingers for a breath too long before he withdrew...

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